Rachel Kramer Bussel's Blog, page 115

Want a free Cheeky Spanking Stories postcard?

If you're in the U.S., just email eroticspankingantho at gmail.com with "Postcard" in the subject and your name and U.S. mailing address in the body, and as soon as they arrive I will send you a Cheeky Spanking Stories postcard! The book will be out sometime this month and if I get 150 likes on Amazon I will share my full nude hotel story "Marks" - click here to read a portion of it and here for the introduction and table of contents.

Should every woman over 30 try being a cougar?

That's what this week's sex diarist thinks! She's 32 and with a 20-year-old guy.

Last week's diary was "The Lesbian Couple Trying to Scare the Straight People in Provincetown"

If these inspire you to write your own, either for the online series or to be considered for the 2013 book of sex diaries I'm editing for Ten Speed Press, email me at sexdiaries at nymag.com and feel free to pass this on! To be considered for the book, I'd need your full 7-day diary by September 30th. Thank you for all your referrals, they've been very helpful.

2 cozy mysteries I highly recommend

You may or may not know I'm pretty into cozy mysteries. Here are the 2 latest from series I am obsessed with, and I highly recommend both these mysteries and the series. Both are also on Twitter (@sueannjaffarian and @CleoCoyle) and are awesome.


Hide and Snoop by Sue Ann Jaffarian (Odelia Grey series)
Buy from Amazon, Kindle, Nook or IndieBound (for independent bookstores)

My review:

I've been a dedicated reader of the Odelia Grey series for a few years, so much so that picking up the latest mystery feels like revisiting old friends I haven't seen in a while. This book is my favorite so far, because it shows a lot of character and relationship development for Odelia and Greg when a young child enters their life. The office politics are ratcheted way up, as "corpse magnet" Odelia copes with not having her old boss Steele to, well, boss her around. Instead, she has the ultimate mean girl, who dumps her young niece with a horrified Odelia, but her heart is melted as fast as you can say "Cheesehead Squirrel" (the girl's nickname for Odelia). This is a fast-paced, exciting mystery that kept me guessing, as always, and tugged at my own heartstrings. Odelia is as gutsy, stubborn and outspoken as ever, but she also shows a new side of herself that reminds me why I am a fan of this series in the first place, because it's not just about murders, but about love and family and how far people will go in the name of them (and yes, sometimes that includes murder). An excellent read, and if you're new to the series, you can start with this one, though I'd recommend reading my way through the Odelia Grey series from the beginning.

A Brew to a Kill by Cleo Coyle (coffeeshop mystery series)
Buy from Amazon, Kindle, Nook or IndieBound (for independent bookstores, I'm linking to all Cleo Coyle's titles)

My review:

I'm a relatively new reader of Cleo Coyle's coffeeshop series, but it has everything I like about cozy mysteries: family, romance, small business, food and smart investigation. It also has plenty of coffee trivia and New York City ambience and in this case, food trucks, along with a dose of city politics and rivalry! The Village Blend decides to branch out with a coffee and dessert truck, which causes internal strife before Clare and her ex-husband Matteo, as well as external strife when her rival sees her as stiff competition. When her friend gets run over outside the Village Blend, it gets personal and Clare takes on a new mission to hunt down the hit and run driver, which includes posing as a wedding cake buyer. Once again, this series stays extremely current while also giving us insight into the Village Blend's and New York City's past, and ups the intrigue and personal drama between Clare, Matteo and Clare's partner Mike Quinn, when the three have to share living space. This is a fast-paced mystery with an amateur sleuth who proves she's tough but also has quite a heart, one that foodies especially will enjoy.

I missed a plane and spent $345.60 but I hope you never do

Read all about my missed flight saga and travel tips I learned from it at Open Salon. Aka, I come out as someone who only now is learning all sorts of tech and travel and iPhone things and I am now a devotee of TripIt. Also, in other news, I'm on Instagram ("rachelkramerbussel"). Expect lots and lots of food porn.

Last month, I was supposed to land in Minneapolis at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon; instead, I spent five and a half hours waiting for a flight at LaGuardia and eventually arrived at 10:40 p.m. Here's what happened. I checked my flight information a few days before the flight and remembered I had to be at JFK for a 1 p.m. flight. I didn't write down the details or check in online, which I normally do. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I didn't, probably because I was in a hurry and assumed I didn't need to. Instead, I figured I'd check in when I got there. I took the L train to the J or Z (I don't recall which) to Sutphin Boulevard, then paid $5 for the AirTrain to take me to my gate, but before I boarded, I checked to see which gate Spirit Airlines was located at, and discovered that Spirit doesn't fly from JFK. In a panic, since it was 11:32 already, I figured I'd take a cab to LaGuardia. If I was at the wrong airport, at least I had time to fix the problem.

Read the whole essay

Hello, September!

I'm waiting for the coffee cake my boyfriend and I baked to cool; yesterday we made blueberry muffins and he said, "This recipe is your kind of recipe," because you're supposed to serve them immediately. Waiting half an hour is not my speed, but I'm working on it.

I was going to post about all the travails of August, which had some fun moments but also had mean girls and missed flights and cancelled writing workshops (okay, really one of each, but it sounds better in plural) but I'm more focused on August, on the calm of baking, on finally going to DC next weekend, then Long Beach the next, then Dubai the next, of the books I'm reading and the one I'm re-reading, on wrapping up some book projects and brainstorming a big new one. On figuring out if I can afford my therapist, whose sessions I've greatly missed and am finding help me in infinite ways. I can't say anything about that one yet lest I jinx it, but I think I've been struggling with "my place" in the world of freelancing and writing/editing generally. I love that I have a name of sorts in the world of sex/erotic writing, and I don't want the universe at all to think I'm begrudging that. It's not only how I make my living but one thing I know I'm good at.

At the same time, I don't want to be boxed in and seen as "only" a sex or erotica writer. That wouldn't be worth it in any way. I want to write about politics and food and fandom and theater and travel as well as Fifty Shades of Grey . Of course, no one is stopping me. I have a journal, I have a blog, but I meant, get paid to write about those topics. I am trying to figure out that balance, to learn from those who do it all successfully, to make my life work in the ways I need it to. I also will probably always write about, well, me. It helps, it's cathartic, and sometimes writing is the only thing that works. So we'll see. I feel like anything could happen, and if I learned anything from the awful parts of August, it's that I can't predict even one minute from now, let alone one day or one week. I hope I get to go to all the places I want to. I hope the pieces I have floating out there in the editorial ether find their way to a happy home. I hope a lot of things, but I also know I have to sit, here, now, waiting, working, one word at a time, and that there's a hell of a lot of luck involved in anything that may or may not happen. I'm trying to wean myself a bit off social media, and will not be turning my phone on in Dubai lest a repeat of London's outrageous iPhone bill occur. I am antsy to get ready for that trip, but that is several weeks away. Before then, there are pieces to file and pitches to pitch and cakes to bake.

Free spanking erotica story and another one for you if I get to 150 likes for Cheeky Spanking Stoires

Here's a totally free spanking erotica story, my story "The Depths of Despair" from Spanked: Red-Cheeked Erotica . The "cost" is that I'm asking that if you like it, you head on over to my brand-new out-this-month anthology Cheeky Spanking Stories page on Amazon and click "like" - if I get to 150 likes, I will post the entirety of my story "Marks," about a couple at a nude hotel which pushes the boundaries of public displays of kinkiness. Click here for a sneak peek of "Marks." And for those who want your spanking erotica right now, below is purchasing information for my current collections Spanked and Bottoms Up . I will be in Dubai when Cheeky Spanking Stories goes on sale, but am very excited about its release and this amazing cover! Postcards will go out in early October, so if you're in the US and you want one, email eroticspankingantho at gmail.com with "Postcard" in the subject and your name and mailing address in the body and I'll send those as soon as I can.

The Depths of Despair by Rachel Kramer Bussel

Evan is staring at me intently, waiting for the answer to his question, “What do you want?” whispered directly into my ear. Such a short sentence for the very complex response it opens up in me. I want a hundred million things from him, but at this moment, I want something I’m not totally sure either of us can handle.

“I want you to make me cry,” I tell him. I have to whisper it because the words, and the realization, are so intense I’m not sure I can own up to them. But it’s true; every time I think about his hands crashing down on me, his words berating me, his power keeping me in my lowly place, things we’ve done hundreds of times but that I still clamor for, I realize I don’t want something light and easy, something we can laugh about later. I don’t even want compliments like, “God, you can take a lot.” It’s not a competition for me; I know what my body can do, but I want to see what we can do together, if we can take spanking somewhere it’s never gone before, if we can make it propel us into a new place where we lose ourselves only to find people we’ve always wanted to be. I’ve wanted this forever, I realize, as I say the words, but had never felt close enough with a lover to go there before him. I want something altogether different from every other spanking I’ve ever gotten, the ones that were hot and kinky and nasty, but that shied away from even approaching the edge of oblivion. Only with Evan can I dare to approach that dividing line that could topple our over-the-knee pleasures forever, or consecrate spanking as the centerpiece of our relationship.

I’ve never had to use a safeword before, and most of the time, I’ve barely even had one I could use. I trust my lovers implicitly and have never felt the need for one. Buried within that trust, though, is a safety net I’m not sure I any longer want, a safety net that suddenly feels altogether too constricting. I’ve never liked the word play used to describe kink, or at least, my kink. There’s nothing playful about it, even though I know all about safe, sane and consensual, and that I can stop at any time. I can top from below with the best of them, but something in me has finally rebelled at this topsy-turvy state of masochistic affairs. I’m ready for the real thing, and am finally strong enough to take it, and Evan is just the man to grant me my wish.

If we were the marrying kind, I’d have a nice, shiny rock to flash around to all and sundry. We’re not, so I don’t expect that, but I married him in my heart a month after we met. He had his cock inside me, was fucking me doggie-style, and I moved, just slightly, almost imperceptibly. “Don’t move, Denise. Don’t ever move. Stay with me forever,” he said. I could’ve dismissed it as pillow talk⎯most women would have⎯but somehow I knew he meant it. We’ve had our ups and downs in the year we’ve been together, but I’ve always known that he was the one. Not the One, the mystical, magical, phantom lover meant to fulfill a woman’s every need and fantasy before she can even think of them. Not that One, but this one, my special one, the one who makes my heart beat like we’re on a crashing airplane, who makes me smile when he wakes me in the middle of the night with a particularly loud snore, the one whose eyes and cock compete for best feature. The one who’s made me relearn what submission is all about.

Yet even after a year of me naked over his knee, or up against the wall, or bent over holding my ankles, or any number of other positions we’ve tried to perfect our spanking regimen, we still haven’t reached the heights, or depths, I know we could. I haven’t cracked the surface of his sadism, haven’t pushed him to bring out the truly mean top I know lurks inside, haven’t let myself sink into the glory of sub space so fully I wonder if I’ll ever come out. My fantasies have gotten more and more twisted, perverse, unreal. But I don’t want an army of lovers or community-wide kink; I want Evan, just Evan. It’s through no fault of his, or mine, that we haven’t gone there, I’ve just always surrendered to the lure of his cock when the pressure seemed unbearable, right before I went over the edge I’m afraid I’ll never return from. What if after this I want him to make me cry all the time? What if he takes that as a sign I need therapy? What if we become one of those couples where the man gets off on fucking his wife but not in the way that makes him rush home to her? What if he thinks I’m crying because I’m sad or in pain or don’t love him anymore? I have no answers or crystal ball, I only know that the tears are demanding an exit, and won’t take no for an answer. They aren’t tears of sadness, that much I know for sure; what these tears signify I don’t yet know, but I am convinced Evan can help me understand. He grabs me by the scruff of my neck, and I whimper, just like I have before, but there’s something different in his eyes. They’re feral, wild with a kind of desire I’ve never seen before, and that sight unleashes a wave of want inside me. My entire body goes tight, then limp. “Be careful what you wish for, Dee,” he says. “Very, very careful.” When I make a move to open my mouth, he shuts my lips, pressing them between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t speak until we’re done. You’ll know when we’re done. You can make noise, scream all you want, but no talking, unless you need to safeword. Your safeword is emergency. But I don’t think you’re going to come anywhere close to using it.” He lets go of my lips, then just stands there staring at me. At an even six feet, he’s got a good five inches on me so I’m looking at up him, my face just as serious as his.

Then, in a flash, he’s grabbed me and moved us over so can slam me against the wall. This is no gentle crash in which I’m just as complicit; he slams me, and it hurts, but I like the pain. A lot. My face smashes into the familiar white space, his hand against the side of my head. I’ve been up against countless walls since I met him, but never so close, where it’s like I’m inhaling the paint. I’ve murmured, prayed even, into wood and brick and paint. But now my lips aren’t so much touching the wall as merged with it. My body goes on red alert as he smears me into the wall. My pussy is pounding, demanding attention in much the same way my heart is thudding. “Stay there, whore.” He knows that word sets me off, but this time, his voice is gruffer; it’s not a playful term of endearment, and I almost feel like one. I wonder what I’d do if I really were a whore with a client who wanted to treat me like this. I focus on the plaster against my skin, on his hand that has just stabbed me in the lower back. Okay, not stabbed, but the pressure there is exquisite, his palm digging into the spot where my back curves, his thumb resting against my anus.

Then his hand booms down against my right buttcheek. I’d thought I couldn’t sink farther into the wall, but I’d been wrong, because somehow, I become one with it. It hurts, and not in the way my ass does. My facial pain isn’t quite the sweet, stinging, arousing pain that spanking brings, but this pain still manages to feel good in its own way, reminding me what I’m capable of in the name of getting off. I know my face will be red later, probably my breasts, too. His hand keeps coming down against me, spanking me furiously in a way that surely has to singe his palm as much as it does my bottom. Then his teeth are sinking into the back of my neck and his four fingers are turning the backs of my thighs red. “Denise, now’s as good a time as any to tell you. It’s over.” He’s spanking me hard the whole time he speaks, and the smacks are so loud I almost can’t make out what he’s saying. “I didn’t know how to break it to you, but I’m moving out. I’ve found my own place, over on Larch. I’ve got two more weeks here, and I’ll try to be as discreet as I can. I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but now’s as good as any, wouldn’t you say?” He’s talking like we’re having some kind of adult conversation, while meanwhile my entire stomach has dropped, yet my pussy is still on fire.

So is my ass, where he’s still spanking me. I’ve had my hands up above me on the wall, but they start to drop. All I want now is to curl into a ball, wrapped around myself. Fuck spanking, I think, about to whisper, “Emergency,” when he presses his entire body against mine, lifting my hands back above me and pressing his palms to the backs of my hands, hard. “Keep those there, Dee. I said two more weeks, and don’t think I’m not gonna get the most pussy out of you I can before then. I don’t want to forget this ass,” he says as he pinches the skin there.

I’m not crying; I’m numb inside. Did I bring this on? This wasn’t what I wanted. I keep my hands above me just to spite him. Now I won’t cry, just to show him. “Stay right fucking there. Whore,” he says, and despite myself, I feel a shudder. He knows why it triggers me so⎯I used to be one, at least the worst kind of one, one who gave it away to anyone who so much as looked my way, succumbing to the word I’d been called since sprouting 38Ds in my senior year of high school⎯yet it also thrills a deep, secret place inside me. I was a slut who was so far gone she thought of herself as a whore, and even got off on the blasé way I could pick a guy up, bring him home, and chuck him out the door. But that nameless blur of men and cocks was nothing compared to the power I tapped into with Evan. Even the good guys, the ones trained in the art of BDSM, who worshipped my ass as much as they punished it, couldn’t come close to what we have. Had. I don’t know anymore. His hands are everywhere at once, firing off blows that make my whole body light up in recognition of my place, my role in this apocalyptic scene. I briefly wonder if he’ll offer me money that I have to take from him with my teeth, as one guy did when I did a brief stint stripping. Yet even with his horrific words ringing in my ear, the image makes me wet. I picture him shoving dollar bills into my cunt, into my mouth, gluing them to my body, marking me as a whore once and for all.

My mind goes a little quieter as he slips the blindfold over my eyes. “Get over here,” he says, grabbing me by my nipple, pinching it as he pulls me across the room. The point where our bodies touch stings, but a soothing, familiar heat travels lower. I’ve asked for this, I want this, we’ll deal with the aftermath later, I think, as I feel him bend me over the spanking bench we bought in our first heady, kinky weeks together. Who will spank me on it when he leaves? I wonder as he settles me over it so my ass is perfectly poised. I expect the spanking to start up again immediately, and perhaps because of that, it doesn’t. I can’t see, but I can hear him moving around, the flick of a lighter, the sharp inhale of a cigarette. I don’t approve, but I gave up lecturing him long ago.

“You’ll be rid of this smell soon enough,” he says, as if reading my mind. He blows hot smoke against my ass, and I tremble. I’m waiting, patiently, if you ask me, but he just strokes my asscheeks with the tips of his fingers, tickling me more than anything else. “I’ll miss this ass, Denise. I hope you believe me. It just has to be this way.”

“Is it Monique?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

“Does that fucking matter, Denise?” he snarls, this time pounding me so hard my stomach feels like it’s colliding against the seat of the bench, even though they’re already connected. He’s smoking and spanking, somehow, as if he has all the time in the world, as if he isn’t providing more than the tears I asked for, countless more. “Yes. No. I don’t know,” I sob, wanting to rewind to the start of this scene. I try to let my mind go black, especially when he moves around to kiss me hard, his breath smoky. He pulls back and I see him draw the cigarette right under my lips, close enough that I can feel the orange flame, before he moves aside and puts it out right on our bedside table. This is a mean side of him I’ve never seen before, something beyond sadistic, like he wants to hurt me all the way through, not just make my ass quake and smolder.

“Well it’s none of your business. Not anymore,” he says, and turns his back to me. He hasn’t shackled me, yet I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. The bench is my savior, my companion, my safety net. I keep thinking he’s going to bust out some exquisite new toy, a wooden panel, a ruler, a cane. He likes to make me scream and flinch, to mark me, render me as his fully and completely. He likes that I’m into spanking, but always finds ways to make me feel like an amateur spankee who hasn’t quite reached the levels of masochism his latest toy warrants. But this time, he goes back to that trusty favorite: his hand. He has ways of curving that body part that turn it into the sickest instrument around.

“Don’t say a word, Denise. For once, just keep your fucking mouth shut.” He sounds like someone else entirely; he’s put on an accent to go with his words, Queens blue collar instead of his usual clipped, cultured, Westchester doctor voice. Yes, he loves playing doctor with me, another thing that’ll have to end now, I suppose. “Good. I’m going to spank you until you’re all cried out, and I’ll be the judge of that.”

Strangely, even though he starts with hardly any warm-up, just raises his hand like a whip and strikes me smartly across my cheeks, I can’t cry just yet. I clamp my eyes shut, breathe through my nose, and focus on the pain. This I can process, this I can deal with, this I think I want. My pussy is getting wet and yet somehow I hardly feel it. “This not hard enough for you?” he asks, then digs his short but strong nails into my ass after one particularly rough blow.

This goes on for thirty-seven minutes. I know because he tells me; he’s been looking at the clock, must want to get this over with already. I’m wondering why he doesn’t just use a paddle or something already when I feel his hand hit me and then a burning sensation. He’s added something to his palm that makes it sting like hell. Next he shoves what I’m sure is our metal dildo into my cunt. He plunges it in without any hesitation, then goes right on with the searing smacks that really feel like he’s added chili pepper or something to his hand. It burns, and hurts, but I still open for him to fuck me with the toy, or rather, my pussy does. My head is still locked on what he’s just revealed.

When an hour has passed and only one lone tear has dribbled down my cheek, he stands me up and then has me kneel before him. He takes off the blindfold. I want to look into his eyes, but I don’t. I stare down at the ground, hardly knowing who he is anymore. Then he strikes me across the face. This isn’t a loving tap or even a sexual smack. He hits me, just once, across my right cheek. He’s a left, so it stings real good. “I got her a spanking machine. The one you always wanted. It’s spanking her right now, warming up her ass just for me.” He reaches for my nipple again, twisting it until I cry out. I wonder why he’s telling me these things, why he’s being so mean. I wonder if I’ll have to move to avoid seeing the two of them around.

I picture her, then, her ass, a good one third the size of mine, raised up on that sweet machine while it pummels her over and over and over again. Evan and I had gotten off watching women being spanked by those machines, and I’d been angling for one for months. Monique’s new in town, was, I thought, a new friend. He’s known her less than two months and already she’s usurped my place. That’s when the tears start, first a few on one side then a few on the other, weak little rivulets of saltwater. That’s when Evan takes me across his lap, my favorite. He used to do it before bed sometimes, telling me he loved me while using the meanest wooden paddle we owned. Now he does it and I just let the tears fall onto the ground. At first I put my arm in my mouth to stifle my sobs, but then I just let loose. His smacks are no harder than before, but they feel harder, somehow. We both lose track of time as the spanking seems to go on forever, my cries only ending when he shoves four fat fingers into my pussy and smacks my ass some more. Finally, I’m all done. I’ve come in a quick, almost rebellious burst. I don’t want to give him that satisfaction, but I can’t resist his touch. I look up at him through the haze of tears, searching his eyes for an answer as my throbbing ass welcomes the cool air from the window.

When it’s over, I try to sneak off to the bathroom, my face streaked with tears, my body seeming to sag under its own weight. I want to be alone, to curl up in the bath and merge into the bubbles. But he grabs me again, roughly, hugging me so tightly that at first I don’t realize he has tears in his eyes, too, tears that are slowly sliding down his face. “What are you crying about?” I ask bitterly, selfishly liking the comfort of his solid strength.

“Dee, my sweet Dee. I’m not going anywhere. I’m yours. Forever, remember? But you wanted me to make you cry, and I knew I had to go far, far down to somewhere foreign and scary to really make you scared. You’re a tough woman to crack, even though you don’t always realize it.”

I stare at him in disbelief, wondering whether he’s an evil genius or a truly sick bastard. I guess part of why I love him is that I’ll never truly have the answer to that, I just have to keep lowering myself to the depths of despair, and seeing if I make it through.

If you liked this story, please like Cheeky Spanking Stories on Amazon and if you want to read more from Spanked, here's how:



Buy Spanked from:

Amazon

Kindle ebook

Bn.com

Nook ebook

Powell's

Indiebound

Audible audio version

Cleis Press

Buy Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories from:

Amazon

Kindle ebook

Bn.com

Nook ebook

Audible audio version

Powell's

Cleis Press

Dislocation

I'm in Brooklyn for what feels like a few brief hours because it is a few brief hours. These days I travel so much I feel a bit discombobulated no matter where I am, but the bonus of being at home is that I do not have to consult GPS or maps save for minor street turns. I've been off balance the past few weeks, with so many plans disrupted and rearranged and turned on their heads, and new plans springing out of thin air. I have many pieces I'm waiting to hear back about, that feel like I've sent them into some editorial black hole and I know the right answer is to move on and write more, but I keep wondering what to do about those, whether to check in and risk being a pain, whether to submit elsewhere.

I fell down a step the other day and skinned my knees and palms and was mostly grateful that my glasses were intact. That's the second time I've fallen and they've held up. The saddest part was that I fell down a lone step and I was actually waiting on it for someone who was hobbling down the stairs on crutches and in my dreamy, head in the clouds way was wondering what that was like, and then I went sprawling.

That sprawl seems to epitomize much of my life these days. Falling, picking myself back up, trying to stay calm but sometimes freaking out. Yesterday my headache was so bad that I almost cried, but I didn't. My friend made me homemade guacamole that was fresh and delicious and spicy and we ate those and blue corn chips and watched her videos from the Olympics, including Usain Bolt's big win.

There is a part of me that wants to give up my apartment and just roam, which is sortof what I'm doing the next few months, without the giving up my apartment part. I'm not going to do that, but sometimes I think about it, because Where to Live has become a metaphor for What I Want My Life to Look Like and I'm not totally sure on either count. Ruling out possibilities in both categories should help me narrow down the good choices, but sometimes it feels picky, like I should just take whatever I can get. It's hard to realize that you can fall for a place as much as a person. I have been wearing this Brooklyn hoodie all over the country, from Milwaukee to the West Coast to Minneapolis, as a reminder of home.

It's funny because every time I go away, I stuff my suitcase full of books and have all these grandiose plans of how much I'll read and write, and this trip, even with what wound up being a 6-hour airport wait, I didn't read all that much. I finished one mystery and read a YA book and a memoir over the course of a week, which isn't bad, but I brought about 7 more books and acquired a few more by visiting publishers. And...that's how my home is filled with hundreds of books. I'm trying to set smarter goals for myself. That sense of dislocation sometimes occurs when I sit down to write or edit or blog. Those are all very different tasks, and nonfiction is different from fiction, and sometimes it feels like shaking my brain back and forth and jostling it until it's in the right mindset for one or the other. I like the variety, but I sometimes it's dizzying.

For Fifty Shades of Grey fans

Here are Fifty Shades of Grey cupcakes and here are some more.

Nude hotel spanking erotica story sneak peek (aka, like if you like spanking)

I'm giving you a free sneak peek at my September anthology Cheeky Spanking Stories , and if you like it, I'd love it if you'd do me a favor and click "like" on the Amazon page for Cheeky Spanking Stories. I don't pretend to totally understand metadata and how Amazon works, but I'm being told by various writers that getting a certain amount of likes on Amazon helps kick your book into gear over there. I've heard 40 and 150 as the threshold and wish I knew more (if you do, let me know at rachelkb at gmail.com) but I want to give my books the best fighting chance they can get, so I can keep on doing them. And yes, there will be Cheeky Spanking Stories postcards; if you're going to Catalyst Con in Long Beach September 14-16, I will hand you one in person, otherwise, stay tuned for details on how to get a free one mailed to you. And with that, here's me combining two things I love, hotels and spanking!

From my story "Marks" in Cheeky Spanking Stories

“Stop it!” Emma squealed as Russell’s blows with the belt went from slaps with more noise than sting to ones that seared her skin, ones that would surely leave marks all over her pale backside. Normally she loved knowing that he wasn’t just spanking her in the moment, but was giving her a parting gift as well, something she tucked into her panties and skirts as she went to work or was reminded of as she sat down at a restaurant for lunch with a friend.

The tinge of afterglow combined with being able to admire her ass were added bonuses to the thrill she got from being spanked, the rush of delicious sensation that she could rarely get enough of. Even on her most off days, when the world seemed askew, a spanking from Russell could set her mind at ease, could right her world. As wonderfully painful as they were, she balked, sitting up and shifting so she was sitting on the hotel bed. “They’re all going to know.” Yes, even at an alternative venue, Emma wanted to be liked and not judged, to fit in. She was all too used to feeling like the odd woman out for liking things like being spanked, slapped, tied up, choked and verbally degraded. She’d found a community of like-minded people who gave her the support she needed, who understood that after a long day she liked to come home and sometimes wear nothing but a collar. This was a new adventure for Emma and Russell, a welcome pleasure after eight years together.

“Know that you like to be spanked? Honey, I’m sure they can tell just by looking at you,” Russell coaxed her. The idea of being “found out” in nonkinky company had always been something they’d talked about in bed, but now it wasn’t having its usual arousing effect on her. “And besides, so what? We’re adults and we’re at an adult resort. The point is to do whatever we want. And I know you want a spanking.” He was right; she did, very much so, and she knew he wasn’t talking about a simple over-the-knee hand spanking, but the kind of blistering session that made them both breathless, the type of spanking that fueled their relationship and, Emma thought, kept it solid and secure.

Spanking was something they could always turn to—and did. But showing off her ass after a full round of Russell at his most vicious wasn’t on her agenda. The bruises and welts he tended to leave on her pale ass were special to her, marks of her endurance she treasured with pride, but they were for her to see in the mirror or him to admire around the house. She’d wanted to come here, but she was still feeling out the crowd, and didn’t want to jinx herself and be seen as separate because of her spanking predilection. Sure, most of these people maybe engaged in a few slaps before and during sex, but Emma liked it hard and rough.

“Well, it’s fine for them to suspect, but I can’t walk around in a nudist hotel the way I normally do, with marks and bruises all over me. It’s one thing if I show off my tattoos or maybe bend too low and they see a bruise or a few lines so quickly they could almost think they imagined it, but what would these people think if they saw exactly how red you make my ass? They’re exhibitionists, sure, but that doesn’t mean they’re kinky. I don’t want to scare them.” Still, even as she said the word, the idea of scaring them filled her with a sense of excitement, a sense of power. She was an exhibitionist, but she was also a perfectionist and competitive at everything she did, from her job as a party planner to finding the best-tasting coffee in town.

If she was going to do something, she wanted to be the best, and if you’re at a nude resort, the goal is not so much to have the mythical “perfect” body as to score the most attention. If Emma hadn’t known that when they walked in, she’d have figured it out from the parade of people, classically beautiful and not, strolling through the hotel in their altogether. The truth was, to really stand out in a place like this, you’d have to not just wear clothes but dress like Lady Gaga. Emma liked her size-ten body, liked the way it felt when she draped herself across Russell’s lap, liked how her large breasts bobbed as she walked around topless, as she had last night, their first at the resort. She’d been too nervous to go bottomless, but eating dinner in public with her tits hanging out had been freeing, and exciting, and they’d both enjoyed seeing so much naked flesh, whether they were interested in touching it or not. Russell had moved his seat next to Emma’s so they could whisper and discuss their fellow diners, and who they’d want to kiss or spank or fuck.

“Fine, for tonight. No marks. But I’m not letting you go to dinner until I’ve enjoyed your ass, one way or another. What’ll it be, Em?” He was asking her if she wanted to get spanked or have him spread her cheeks and shove his cock deep into the hole he opened up there. She liked both of them, though spanking was her favorite. She’d never been spanked before meeting him save for a few light smacks, and those hadn’t done what his smacks did for her. Russell’s spankings were a work of art, from the way he teased her to the way he made her ass feel like it was coming alive under his hand.

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Cheese curds, bacon, alligator, lamb testicles, deep fried deliciousness: My first time at the Minnesota State Fair

Read all about my three days at the Minnesota State Fair at Grub Street (yes, "orgy" is in the title). It's my first piece for them and I'm very excited to be delving into food writing (aside from cupcake blogging). If you like it, please like it on Facebook and pass it on. More photos are on Flickr but these are some of my favorites, like alligator sauteed in garlic and oil and alligator-shaped fries! That soft serve cone ruined me for soft serve; it was amazing. Thanks to my friend Sheela for recommending I try it (in the dairy building). Also it didn't make it in to the final article, but New Yorkers, heads up for next year, there's a Minnesota State Fair Day in NYC, complete with cheese curds!


Puff Daddy on a stick!